Untitled Love Story
by DinahWas
Summary: AU short story commissioned by the winning bid of .@clubdoccubus #CharityAuction. The prompt: Bo and Lauren meet as actresses. Romance ensues, or does it?
1. Chapter 1

**Thank you for anonflux22 for your generosity. Characters belong to Lost Girl and its creators. Just playing in their sandbox.**

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><p>i.<p>

McHale's reeked of disappointment: from the shabby, beer-soaked carpeting to the flickering cord of pink neon overhead that ran along the seam between the walls and the ceiling. Three tiny banquettes—more like lumps of cracked leather—waited patiently to be occupied. One could anticipate, even at a distance, the coils beneath the bench seats aching and groaning beneath the weight of the next tale of woe to walk in the door. The bartender didn't expect too much action tonight, not with the Tony Awards going on down the street, and all the theatres closed for the occasion. McHale's was exactly the kind of mid-town swamp where strangers from opposite worlds are always, _always _destined to meet, except tonight, when the barkeep had only his conscience and an old woman for company.

The lone woman sat at the bar, bent over from fatigue or age or both; for someone who cut a frail figure, her eyes were surprisingly alert, darting between the highball she'd been nursing for well over an hour and the flat screen television hanging above the bar in the corner. "I could tell you stories," she muttered to no one in particular. Even if the barkeep heard, he did a good job of ignoring her.

Neither the bartender nor the old woman noticed when a pretty woman, too pretty and expensively dressed for a flea trap like McHale's, slipped in quietly and took a seat at the bar. She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to be nabbed by the law like a thief in the night; then, like the hag two seats away, the slender woman fixed her eyes on the TV and the awards show on the screen. She swallowed hard at the sight and turned away. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves to exposed shoulders and her gown, even in the darkness, shimmered like the inside of a seashell. The barkeep broke away from his own reverie and poured her a double of ten year old bourbon—just like she had ordered it: _neat, no ice._ It was then, with her first sip, that the tension that had walked in with her began to lift from her body and she relaxed into the void that was McHale's.

The old woman beside her broke the silence.

"There's not enough hooch in the world to wash away your troubles, dearie."

The bartender with the body of the Michelin man stood midway between his only two customers of the evening. That the younger woman was attractive did not go unnoticed by him; he offered a friendly grin even as his eyes roamed over her body.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer!" the old woman whooped.

The bartender relaxed his gaze and turned to the beauty in the floor-length gown. "You let me know if the Norn here bothers you."

"The _Norn?"_

"Yeah," he parked his hands on his waist. "That's what she goes by. No one knows if it's real or made-up. At any rate, she's friendly, sometimes _too_ friendly, to newcomers."

"She seems harmless."

"Well, you ain't seen the Norn," he laughed.

The old woman piped up. "I can hear you!"

"As I was saying," he continued, "she's a bit of a fixture…sort of comes with the place."

A smile appeared on the younger woman's lips, less in reaction to the bartender and more as if she were privy to an inside joke. Indeed, the atmosphere at McHale's leaned toward dreary which only made the woman's beauty that much more obvious, to him and perhaps even to the old woman. Even amongst weeds, she bloomed like a rose, an English tea rose with skin as soft as petals and dewy as the morning—a direct contradiction to her accidental drinking partner who looked so broken down that one half expected the crone's flesh and bones to crumble into ash at any moment.

"She's fine. I'm fine," the young woman responded to the bartender, and gave him a small wave of her hand, which he took as a cue that she'd engaged in enough small talk and now just wanted to be left alone.

As the bartender stepped away, however, he winked at the blonde and pointed at the bourbon freshly poured in her glass. "The Norn hustles for 'em, so watch out."

The blonde shrugged. "Huh. She probably could use the drink."

"Like I said, give us a shout if you need another." Then he walked to the opposite end of the bar, leaving the women to the blue glow of the television light and the sound of the program, the volume of which he turned down to a murmur.

The blonde rested her chin on her palm and frowned at the television.

"Well, if you've got a story to tell, tell it," croaked the hag.

"Excuse me?" the blonde peeked sideways at the ancient sitting next to her. Her appearance was neat on the surface but on closer inspection, the edges and hems of the old woman's clothing were frayed and downy with loose threads. Whiffs of something sour pulsed off her skin. She dressed in layers. The realization that she might be wearing every piece of clothing she owned, shot shivers of pity through the younger woman's veins.

"If I buy you another shot of whatever it is you're having—will you leave me alone?" She tried to make her voice gentle but an undercurrent of pain just made her come across impatient.

The hag coughed out a laugh. "You think buying a stranger a drink will quiet the noise your head is making?"

"Score one for the scary lady." The young woman smirked and motioned for the bartender to bring the old coot another drink. "On me."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said, a little displeased.

Knobby fingers curled around the highball. She took a noisy sip, as if slurping soup from a spoon. This wasn't her first whiskey, not by a long shot. "I got my drink," the ancient grinned, exposing a slight gap between her yellow teeth. "Now you owe me story."

"You won't quit will you?" With that, she took a sip from her glass and winced as the amber liquid coated her throat.

Now it was the older woman's turn to inspect her drinking mate. A nice-looking girl right out of the pages of one of those glossy fashion magazines. A socialite, maybe, or one of those overpaid reality TV hucksters famous for no good reason. She was undeniably lovely, flawless, reminding the hag that once, a long time ago, that in her own youth her beauty had made her vain; but this woman beside her was not so self-possessed. The old woman closed her eyes as if under a sort of hypnosis, listening or sensing below the surface and hearing the beat of a heart on the brink of ruin. It was a sound the she knew intimately. The Norn smiled to herself and breathed a sigh of pleasure. She opened her aged, and vein-streaked lids to find dewy, light brown eyes staring back at her and, perhaps in a rare moment of lucidity, the hag smiled back as if observing a kindred spirit. She read the blonde's face and mapped the beginning, middle, and end of a romance; and the old woman was spurred to tease the story out of her. Isn't that why folks came into watering holes like McHale's? To drink in their thirst to forget—or to remember—and this, the Norn surmised looking at the pretty young thing in a strapless gown, was melancholy ripening on the vine; just the thing that went that well with whisky.

The young woman turned back to the bourbon in her glass, annoyed now that she'd offered the other woman a drink. She didn't like the debt the stranger insisted on holding over her. "You'll pardon me if I keep my story to myself, lady."

The older woman cackled. "Dearie, you started sharing your story the minute you walked into this dump." Her grey eyes met the blonde's with a sharp and unrelenting focus. "Dames dressed like you are, as if they just dumped Fred Astaire in the middle of a dance number, just don't walk into the end-of-the-earth bars to get a drink. Desperation has a smell and you're stinkin' up the joint. Yup, I seen your type before; you're looking for a cure. Question is, what's eatin' you so badly that you'd give a livin' corpse like me the time of day, let alone a free drink."

"Well, you don't know anything," the girl answered without looking up.

"I was pretty once," the old woman said with a slow closing of her eyes.

"And that makes you an expert on why I'm here, or what I'm thinking, does it?"

The old woman glowered at her. "You think this is my first time knocking shot glasses with a stranger? You don't think I had a life before this one? I could tell _you_ a story or two…but there'd be no fun in that."

The younger woman admired the crone's persistence even as she felt the press of the old woman's stare drilling into her. The hag looked at her as if she had X-ray vision, able to see beyond the elegant veneer and the failed attempt to be left alone with only booze and general disappointment as company. _Guess I'm not as good an actress as the critics say I am._ But, if this gap-toothed wonder could see beneath her skin, then maybe it was time to rip this story out into the open with a random witch in a dark and cheerless room soaking in gin and secrets. She took a deep swig of bourbon and waved the empty glass toward the bartender.

"Tell me your name, dearie. Start there."

"Lauren." She hesitated. "And you're wrong, _Norn_. The story began the moment _she_ walked in."

"Let me guess…then all sense flew out the window," she cackled to herself.

"I thought you wanted a story!" Lauren grimaced.

The hag tilted her jaundiced face; a lock of stringy, faded hair fell over blue eyes. She waved her hand, motioning Lauren to go on. Lauren took a deep breath and placed a palm on the bar top, and steadied the other on her lap.

"Bo, that's her name…an actress…and she took my breath away from the first moment we met. I thought we could be friends, but then something about her made me hopeful, something I swore I would never let happen again. You see I wanted more. I wanted her to love me."

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** once again, we go on to the next chapter. Prompted by the winning bid of the #ClubDoccubus Charity Auction to create a Doccubus-centric short story. Lost Girl and its characters belong to its creators. Say it with me, "Just playing in their sandbox." For AnonFlux22. And now, I present the "Meet Cute."

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><p>Lauren rubbed a sore spot on the back of her neck but instead of wincing, she smirked pleasurably to herself, a smug, satisfied smile that seemed completely out of place. Her skin glistened with sweat and fry grease, as were the walls, the floor, anything that caught air effused deep fried oil. Yet, there Lauren leaned against a wall full of peeling paint chips and third-rate rock band posters, an apron tied loosely around her waist and looking as if she'd just swallowed the sun.<p>

"Oy! Are you going to play with yourself all day or are you actually going to work?" Vex shoved a full plate of fish and chips through the service window.

She stretched her limbs overhead like a cat before running a hand through waves of yellow hair. The delight in her eyes was undeniable. "You're being extra mean."

"Don't be saucy," he furrowed his brows, before returning Lauren's smile.

"It's not like I'm _leaving_ you," she pursed her lips as she balanced one, then two plates of freshly cooked fish and chips.

"Yeah, right?" Vex waved a thin metal spatula at Lauren. "One gig and your head will swell to the size of an elephant's arse!" He cast his eyes downward, his voice softening, as he coughed out almost unnoticeably, "I'm proud of you."

It was a moment that caught them both off guard. Vex was known to have said two, maybe three kind things his entire life—the first two were probably whipped out of him by his former headmaster at his Welsh boarding school, a far cry from the Grub 'N Go in the East Village where he boiled fish all day for a living.

Lauren's lips curled into a wide grin and the corners of her eyes wrinkled. She nodded her thanks but before she could say a word Vex's glower returned, along with a waving spatula. "Get on with you now before your customers die of starvation."

"Right," she said, practically floating as she waited tables for what she hoped would be her last shift, ever, in this Godforsaken place.

##

The first day of rehearsal and a pair of long folding tables were pushed together to accommodate the cast. Except for the tables and the chairs, the stage was empty. Lauren feared being late and arrived early, and opted to sit in the semi-darkness of the theatre, running lines in her head. Her middle finger tapped out a senseless Morse code, something she did unconsciously whenever her nerves felt pulled—and she was taut, jerky inside, not unlike a puppet on a string.

The decade she'd lived in New York had not been unkind: first undergrad at NYU (where she first met Vex and later moved in with in a tiny loft apartment not far from the T-shirt and head shops on Bleecker) and then waitressing while auditioning for every role written for a white, female under 30. She did plays, mostly ones downtown that no one ever saw and had a few walk-ons in independent films produced by people she'd met at school. But she was feeling a bit unmoored with a life of swabbing floors, the stink of ammonia and cooking grease on her like a second skin, and the relentless "almosts" that were a more accurate representation of her acting resume than the white lies and bit parts she stapled to the back side of her head shot. She was just another girl in the Big Apple busting tables while waiting for a big break.

To her, being cast in a revisionist production of Tennessee William's _Orpheus Descending_ was typical downtown fare, and likely would open and close without much fanfare. The idea of it didn't excite her. Downtown and experimental usually meant performed in earnest then ignored by the public. But, in a stroke of non-traditional casting, a female actor instead of a man would play the lead role of the mysterious drifter, Val. That actress had made a name for herself appearing mostly as the femme fatale who seduced her lovers and dropped her clothing just before the commercial break. That in and of itself would lure soap junkies south of 14th Street. Bo Dennis had been on daytime television since she was a child, yet she yearned for more, to stretch her chops as she told the press; and her publicist did a great job of selling her as a workhorse who could stay true to her soap opera roots while moonlighting in live theatre.

Once Val was cast, that left the role of _Lady,_ a middle-aged Italian woman who lived with a brute of a husband above the town's general store and confectionery. Life had been nothing but cruel to _Lady_ and whoever played her must balance the line between misery, resignation, and a sort of mad ambition—yes, even in the worst of times _Lady_ still had dreams. _Lady_ had been young and pretty once, and had fallen in love—but it had all been taken away one night under the glow of moonlight and an arsonist's fire that literally burned all her dreams to the ground. _Lady_ wore cruelty like a string of imitation pearls around her neck, plainly, and occasionally tugged at by idle fingertips. Lauren had never expected to be cast as the lead but an audition was an audition. Lauren was just north of thirty, not at all the acerbic and weather-beaten _Lady;_ not yet. But Lauren knew something about being invisible and passed over as if the red ticket she held between slender fingers would never be called. Over the course of ten years she watched as one by one her friends quit acting to become nurses or brokers or teachers—anything with a steady paycheck and benefits, because the business was just too harsh and squashed more dreams than there were stars in the sky. Being a penniless actor-slash-waitress just wasn't romantic anymore; it sucked. She'd decided while on the subway ride to her audition that, if this was to be her swan song, she wouldn't care if the casting directors liked her or not; for in that moment when she stuffed her apron into her backpack, the grease of the fishery still steaming from her skin and clotting strands of her hair, and she stood on that bare stage under a single key light, Lauren _was_ Lady_:_ defiant in spite of the squalor of her circumstances, and tender even as Death kissed her with an open mouth. She made desperation, beautiful; this was _Lady_, this was Lauren. She was hired on the spot and told to show up at the small downtown theatre in a week.

Vex bet her a hundred bucks that she'd be back again, amongst the cod and The Cure posters that papered the restaurant walls. They both hoped he would lose and for the minutes she sat alone that first day, Lauren felt a little of her own optimism come back. How nice it was to work again, doing something she loved, where every minute felt precious instead of wasted. A lone figure walked onto the bare stage, and then another, and another, until Lauren felt safe to follow and join the growing troop of actors taking their seats around the folding table. Bo Dennis arrived last and with her pale skin, slightly overdone eye make up, thick and smoky; slender neck and smooth, even features—oh, and apricot-stained lips—how could such a person so pleasing to the eye truly exist? Lauren dropped her eyes immediately and her fingers tapped incessantly on her lap, sending a secret code to no one, nowhere: help, _help,_ HELP. The screech of a metal chair being dragged from under the table made her look up.

"Hi, I'm Bo," the woman scooted closer to the table and extended her hand.

"Hey," she answered with a firm grasp to the woman's outstretched hand.

Bo swallowed Lauren with her eyes and smiled, moistening her bottom lip with a subtle lick of her tongue.

It was not like Lauren to be this flustered, nor was it her first table reading. Something about Bo threatened to tip over her calm demeanor. _Breathe in, breathe out_, she told herself. "And you'll play Val—a real challenge. Homeless, on the road, rejected by conventional society."

"Oh," Bo raised her brow and her mouth formed into a seductive, half grin. "Val's a charmer, though. I can play _sexy_ in my sleep."

Lauren hadn't watched too many soap operas but figured this was all part of Bo's shtick—the obvious exquisite package delivered with not-so-subtle sensuality—not that it wasn't appealing to Lauren, it was, if not somewhat strong and forced, coming from someone she'd just met.

Lauren hesitated, a warmth growing from her chest like an ember coming back to life. "Are you a method actor?"

"What do you mean?"

Lauren checked the initial pangs of attraction and forced a more clinical tone, like a check-in nurse taking a patient's vitals, the hundredth one in a day, routine, just routine. But this was anything but routine, sitting next to the infamous Bo Dennis after years of waiting tables. It was surreal and she had to resist the compulsion to stare. "Are you always this forward with people you've just met? Or is this your approach to acting, you know, _Stanislavski, The Group, the Meisner Technique? _Staying in character even when you don't have to." Lauren rambled and felt unable to stop herself. "Inhabiting Val, assuming her memories, her sense memories…even now."

"Do you always say exactly what's on your mind? Or do you just like to piss people off?"

Bo's expression was unreadable to Lauren. Vex had always called her brain _irritating_, _with a mind of its own-pun intended_. Lauren's fingers began to stir and tap under the table. Bo was the bigger star here and for sure after that semi-useless monologue on acting, Bo would get her fired. But then she did something amazing: Bo leaned in closer and wrapped an arm around the back of Lauren's chair. "The geek speak is endearing if not a little off putting."

"Look, I didn't mean to—"

"Be a snob? Where'd you go to school? Let me guess. Yale Drama," she said with a slow turning of her head.

"As a matter of fact," Lauren began, but Bo wasn't interested in hearing what she had to say. She was introducing herself to the others around the table, starting with the producers and the director, with whom she seemed keen and overtly complimentary.

Lauren felt small, like a boiled egg left on a counter.

Bo turned her attention back to Lauren. "Which role are you reading?"

Lauren coughed. "Lady."

Bo assessed Lauren overtly, perplexed, wondering perhaps if she heard her correctly. "But Lady is an old woman. And I'm supposed to fall in love…with _you?"_

"And Val is typically played by a guy, a real womanizer. So if you're thinking—"

"I don't think anything," she cut Lauren off.

But she continued anyway. "And I actually think that Lady falls in love with you, not you, I mean—"

"Val. Not _me."_ There was bluntness to her voice that did not invite a response.

"Have I done something to offend you?" Lauren grumbled.

"Other than imply that I'm a sham and illiterate? Why, _no."_

"Great start," Lauren affirmed their mutual dislike for each other.

"Acting," her tone was like the thud of a cleaver landing on a solid chopping block. "For the next two months, we pretend."

"Yup." Spoken like a spoiled brat, Lauren wanted to say.

Bo tilted her nose into the air. "Strange, I smell french fries."

Then the Director clasped his hands and the small talk ended.

Vex might get his hundred bucks, after all.

##

"She hates me." Lauren plopped herself on the futon couch while Vex fetched a pair of Rolling Rocks from the fridge.

"I hate you," he sat next to her, offering his lap for her outstretched legs before handing her a beer.

"Yeah, but you're you. You hate everyone." Lauren pinched the spot between her brows, trying to massage the day away.

"Who could hate the hardest working actress in the entire West Village?"

"She's probably never had an acting lesson in her life. And Bo's the star, for chrissakes."

Vex laughed. "And that's the secret to becoming a star on the soapies. Flare your nostrils…bare your boozies…all those years wasted in University, who knew? You coulda' been workin' all this time, ay?"

It was quiet between them as they both released their troubles and chugged their longnecks in silence.

"Why do you think she hates you?" Vex leaned back, looking at his roommate.

"She thinks I smell and I said some things in my nervousness that probably—no definitely, pissed her off."

"Very few find intelligence charming…except me, of course. But I'm easily impressed," he grinned.

"Knock it off, Vex. Just could you, once—"

Vex cut her off. "You are talented, Lauren. That's why they hired you. For my money, they got the best damn actress in all of New York. So shut it already. You could act circles around this girl—don't let her or anyone else intimidate you. Look at you, a tin can kicked to the curb? You got a part! Stop being pathetic!"

"…and you were doing so well until the pathetic part." Lauren tilted her head from her lying position and thanked Vex with a smile.

He took a long drink from the bottle. "And?"

"And what?"

"How was she?!"

"Okay. Although I'm not sure she knows what to do with all the space. She's been on the same soap since she was a kid. I think not having a teleprompter and a camera in her face is a new thing. She's a bit vaudevillian," she continued, "real broad and sorta one dimensional. Quite frankly, she acts a little too much with her…y'know…"

"Her tah-tahs?" he said with a shimmy.

Lauren shrugged. "She's going to have to adjust, that's my opinion."

"Perfect," he grinned, practically stroking his goatee like a villain. "You'll act rings around her."

"She's my love interest…in the play, I mean, not anything else."

Vex threw a hand in the air reciting an imaginary headline, _"Unknown actress steals show from right under TV star's tits. A legend is born!"_

Lauren kicked him with her foot. "You're a pig."

"I'm a fry cook."

_"No_, you're a writer. Your day will come. Soon."

Vex emitted a "Yeah" to himself and let Lauren's reassurance sit there like a cinder block.

"She's easy on the eyes, I'll say that much. If not for her personality, she'd be easy to fall in love with."

Vex sniffed the air like a hound. "Do I smell a _showmance_ in the wings?"

Lauren shoved him again with her foot.

"What?! You brought her up."

"Well, love is as useful to me as chopsticks are to a fish," she laughed.

"What do you say you and your Uncle Vexie go and hustle a couple of Cuban sandwiches, cruise Netflix, and call it a night?"

"That does sound good," she hummed while flexing her feet in Vex's lap.

"And by the way, _Meryl Streep,"_ he turned to Lauren, "you're paying."

"Always a catch with you, Vex, always a catch."

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><p>Thank you for reading. More to come . . .<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay and THANK YOU for all the reviews, favorites, and follows. For Anon.**

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><p>Lauren was more or less accurate in her assessment of Bo's work. She came across stiff, slightly awkward, like a foal finding its legs—not how Val was written: as a softly, irresistible stranger alive in his own skin, aware of his sensual nature and abusing it as he grifted and ran from one nameless town to another. Val sought honesty with an intense hunger to be found, and loved; and Lady, who knew only cruelty and emotional deprivation, suddenly found herself drawn to Val at the worst possible time and in the worst possible way, as the vulgar man she called her husband lay dying upstairs. Bo captured Val's sensuality easily enough yet struggled beyond the physical aspects of Val's character. The unspoken kinship of two souls lost and finding each other in a cruel world, that kind of connection—seemed like a stretch in spite of everyone's best efforts to draw it out of her. Bo floundered under the scrutiny. The pantomime she could get away with on television did not serve her here; her delivery teetered onto the narrowest of crags that separated parody from truth, artifice from candor. One step in either direction and Bo would fall or fly. Cast and crew hoped and waited for her to take that risk, no one more so than Lauren.<p>

Lauren, in the meantime, performed as Vex had predicted: with all her chips on the table. It was the most complex work she'd had in a long time, and she surrendered completely to it. Lauren so embodied her character that watching her portrayal of _Lady_ conjured images of a nymph rushing barefoot through an endless valley of green that slowly, by seasons, turned into a blanket of thorns beneath her feet. On she stumbled, believing that the pain could and would end either in time or by her own death. Lauren needed Bo to do the same, to shed her inhibitions and fall recklessly in love, to need _Lady_ in this strange, claustrophobic purgatory, a nameless town within earshot of hell. Bo spoke Val's lines but they lacked the heart of someone adrift and sly with just enough innocence left to get one killed or saved. Lauren required more than a scene partner; she sought a co-conspirator, a fighter, a lover. _On stage,_ she reminded herself, _on stage._

After a particularly exhausting Saturday morning, the producers and the director stopped rehearsal mid-afternoon and dismissed the cast and crew for the day. This sparked rumors that the producers might be hedging their bets by stopping the production or recasting it. A heavy rain pelted everyone as they exited the stage door; of course it would rain, as it should, when bad news comes.

Bo and Lauren took refuge under a tiny awning. A car rushed by into a puddle and doused them in dark, muddy street water, soaking them to the skin.

"Shit!" Bo shrieked, a stunned, open-mouthed scream. "That is wicked cold!"

Lauren fingered wet strands from her cheeks. "Yep, that's a good one."

"Where's a cab when you need one?"

Lauren brushed off waves of water from her clothing, laughing.

"What's so funny?"

Lauren stopped fidgeting and scrutinized Bo.

"You're making me uncomfortable, Lauren."

"I bet everyone you meet tells you how beautiful you are…even stinkin' wet."

Bo looked ahead, above, sideways, and then slowly, almost angrily at Lauren. "I can't help the way I look. I'm grateful but it's not like I had anything to do with it."

"But you _do_ use your looks," Lauren pressed on.

"So now I'm a whore to you? Not nice, _Lady."_

Lauren sighed.

Bo shivered as the rain came down in sheets, noisy and infusing the air with a cold, metallic taste. "Being beautiful is a curse sometimes. Like being a monster. All people ever see is the outside. In a split second, people make up their minds about me—before I've even said a word. All because of the way I look."

The false bravado that Bo brought to rehearsal everyday melted somewhere between the pelting of the rain and the honest observation of one who'd been used and packaged as a commodity and sold as entertainment. Lauren did everything expected of her—gone to school, supported herself with odd jobs; she knew how harsh, and yes, sometimes rewarding, the business of acting could be. So enmeshed in her own survival, the thought never occurred to Lauren that someone with Bo's success might resent the very thing that brought her fame.

"You're not so beautiful," Lauren said softly by way of an apology.

"Thanks," Bo answered, laughing. "Just the thing a girl wants to hear."

"And you're not a monster, either. You're more than what you look like," Lauren's eyes lingered a moment too long. She dropped her chin and added quickly, "Just like Val." _Nice save, Lewis._

"Well, I pretty much fucked that up wouldn't you say?"

"Prove them wrong, Bo."

"It's too late for that. I feel it in my gut."

"Your gut is what will save you, Bo. Forget everything you've ever learned. You just need to go for it."

The rain hammered them in thick, angry sheets and they shivered under the tiny bit of fabric overhead that did little to spare them from the downpour. Lauren cast her eyes down the narrow street leading east. "I don't live far from here."

"It's okay, I'll wait for a cab." The chill returned to Bo's eyes as she turned away from Lauren, clutching the collar of her jacket to her throat.

"Bo, listen to me. You can't," Lauren implored, nearly shouting to be heard above the rain.

It took a moment for Bo to register that Lauren might not have been talking about the rarity of cabs on a rainy afternoon.

"I've worked the most despicable jobs imaginable while auditioning for everything from a tap-dancing grape to chorus girl number 5. This is just another job for you. You'll go back to TV after all this is said and done. I won't. I need—" she stopped herself, shaking away her desperation. "I mean to say, I can help you if you'll let me."

"You forgot one thing: we hate each other."

"I hate unemployment even more. Look," she shook the rain from her hair. "I'm this close to moving back home. After the play closes I don't know what's going to happen. This play—this job—it might be the end for me. There are no guarantees. And if this it, I want to know I gave it everything. Isn't that what you want? For yourself? A real shot?"

They stared at each other intently, unaware of the storm or the wind pushing them closer together.

Bo's expression softened, offering the hint of a smile and a dimple to go with it. "Method acting?"

Lauren unconsciously reached out and stroked Bo's arm with her fingertips. "We'll start with coffee. How about that?"

Bo nodded. "But let's walk fast. It's freezing!"

They linked elbows and dashed past the brownstone stoops, Korean bodegas, and the $2 dollar a slice pizza stands. A heady steam reeking of patchouli and wet tar swirled around them as they ran. They arrived soaking and panting. Clearly winded, Bo sucked in deep draughts of air after the climb to Lauren's third floor walk-up.

The flat was narrow as a train car with rooms that sprouted from both sides of the main hallway: a kitchen, a water closet, a shower room and, at the end, shafts of grey light spilled into what must be a living room—just large enough for a pullout couch, a stack of newspapers, an iron-colored floor lamp, and a flat screen television that balanced precariously on a pair of unfinished two-by-fours and a couple of milk crates, one grey and the other navy with _Better Cheese from Bartlett's Dairy_ stenciled on its front.

Bo hesitated at the door. Should she stand or walk in? Lauren had dashed down the hallway, talking at a rapid pace. "I'll get us something dry to wear. Hang on." Then, realizing that Bo hadn't budged, Lauren turned and beckoned with her arm. "I'll be the first to say it. It's not the Taj Mahal. Everything is simple but clean."

"It's cute," Bo answered, shedding water on the carpet in front of the door.

"And you're a terrible liar. But, Vex and I have been happy here."

"Vex, is he your boyfriend?" Bo looked at the photographs hanging on the wall, the tattered oriental runner at her feet, everywhere except at Lauren.

"What? No! My roommate…and in a really weird way, like a brother. A very strange, unpredictable brother."

##

Lauren offered the use of her _en suite _bathroom, a rarity for a building this old; and Bo accepted the invitation for a bath and a change of clothes. The room barely encased the toilet, sink, and a shower head over the tiniest tub Bo had ever seen. Once inside, she scooted sideways and backed herself over the sink in order to get the door to shut. The anemic water pressure ran hot, thankfully, hot enough to redden her skin under its stream. The heat soothed her and freed her mind to wander to thoughts of Lauren. _What an odd one_, she mused; and more honest with Bo than anyone had been for a long time. Lauren delighted her; the surprise and realization coaxed a smile to her lips. She felt nervous around Lauren and no one made Bo Dennis nervous, not this way, leaving her as breathless as a sprinter at the end of a race. She shook her head clear of such thoughts like she did the water from her dark hair, sleek and dry. She emerged from the bathroom and expected to see Lauren—or rather hoped, that she would be waiting in the bedroom.

Lauren called from the living room. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be right out." Bo slipped on the violet NYU hoodie and grey pair of yoga pants Lauren had left neatly folded on the bed.

Lauren abruptly stood when Bo entered. Her eyes glanced over Bo's every curve and the way her clothing fit her just a little too snug. She swayed, a feeling of warm intoxication rising slowly from bottom to top like mercury in a thermometer. "I found some wine," Lauren managed to speak, pointing at a bottle and two glasses on the coffee table. "It's red. And wet. Probably cheap."

"Cheap and red. Both my favorites," Bo smiled and settled on the futon couch. "Nice place."

"It's convenient. We can walk to everything."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Nadia and I found this—" she shifted in her seat. "You know what? My life is boring. And we're here to run lines."

"Wait, why'd you stop?"

"I don't like talking about myself."

"But you want _me_ to be more vulnerable."

"As Val."

Bo set her glass back down and crossed her legs beneath her. She reached for Lauren's hands. "I'll tell you what. You tell me a something about yourself—as personal as you like, and I'll tell you one that nobody knows about me. Sound fair?"

"You want me to tell you a secret? About myself?" Lauren rolled her eyes upward.

"Method acting, remember? Sense memory?"

"That's really not method, more like prying."

Bo squeezed her hands. "You're not weaseling out of this, _lady."_

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

Bo shook her head.

Lauren exhaled and looked at her hands in Bo's. _A perfect fit._ "Nadia and I met in school. Got this apartment and moved in together the spring of junior year." She nodded toward the left side of the flat. "That room there? That was the dark room."

"Kinky."

"Not that kind of dark room. Nadia was a photographer."

"Oh," Bo smiled. "Of course."

"Uh-huh." Lauren pointed towards the entry hall and the framed, black and white photographs that hung there. Street scenes mostly, and stark, capturing urban life in the moment—the kind of images that hung in galleries.

"Those are hers?"

Lauren nodded. "Yup."

Bo released Lauren's hands and reached for her wine glass. She took a sip, focusing on the stem of the wine glass. She traced her index finger around the rim. "Are you still together?"

"She accepted an internship in Paris and never came back."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She got the life she wanted. Sort of," she said rolling her eyes. "She studied journalism and now she shoots for _Vogue_…while I wait tables at the Grub 'N Go."

"But you kept her pictures. I would've burned them."

Lauren shrugged. "They're still beautiful. Besides, people do strange things for love. Or aren't you the type?"

"To fall in love? Have you not seen my show? I fall in love for a living."

"I don't watch a lot of TV."

Bo slumped forward, dropped both feet under her, and rubbed the back of her neck.

"Sorry, that came out sounding awful, didn't it?"

Bo leaned backwards onto the couch, taking her wine glass with her. She held out the glass for Lauren to fill again.

Lauren felt a tingling in her stomach and her cheeks flush as their hands grazed against each other. "Okay, your turn."

"I don't know," Bo hedged.

"No fair, this was your idea." Lauren bounced a little on the cushion.

Bo paused to still the butterflies fluttering in her chest. She emptied the remains of her wine glass with one, big, gulping swallow. She spoke swiftly as if getting it all out fast would make the words easier to say. "I've never taken an acting class in my life. I know, no surprise to you—I'm a fraud. There you have it…and, as you may have guessed…is the reason why this play means so much for me. You were right, I am illiterate when it comes to plays and I'd never read Tennessee Williams before I got this part."

"Wait—it's not like it's an easy read." Lauren cocked her head and furrowed her brow. "How on earth did you even get through the audition? He's like the Shakespeare of the south."

"I didn't. My publicist pitched me to the producers, sent in my reel, begged for a meeting. I met them for lunch at some uptown place." Bo drew circles in front of her chest. "Let the girls do the talking…again." She winced at her own admission. "It was a way of getting in. I needed this," she stammered, "for me."

The mood became cheerless at Bo's admission, and she seemed anxious, like a colt on the verge of bolting. With her wine glass empty again, her hands idled. She started to move away. "I should go."

"Wait," Lauren grasped her wrist, stopping her from leaving, her tone soft and soothing, if not a bit nervous. "I have to ask..."

Bo read her mind. "No, I didn't. And I wouldn't sleep with anyone—not for any part in any play, for any amount of money. I don't do that."

Lauren eyes flashed with warmth as she scooted closer to Bo. She dropped her gaze. "I was going to ask if…you're hungry."

Nervous laughter broke the silence and Bo patted Lauren's hands, letting her fingers linger in her open palms. Neither Lauren nor Bo moved or appeared to want to. Lauren enlaced her fingers into Bo's and together they leaned in closer, barely a breath apart, inches away from lips meeting lips, and attraction—as implausible as this—turning into thunder.

##

The hag's palm smacked loud and sloppily against the bar top. "I knew it! And that's when you kissed her!"

"No, and if you'd stop interrupting—I'd get to it."

Several empty shot glasses stood as sentinels before the young woman and the crone. "Love is wasted on the young," the Norn said with a sour mouth.

"I didn't want to take advantage of her."

The Norn spun in her chair. "Like you would know the taste of that. I could—"

"—Tell me stories, I get it." Lauren ordered another round.

"Shot glasses are like little stories, dearie. Get to the bottom of it. I seen enough tears in this place to flood the whole Empire State," she cackled. "You wanted her and went for it. You primed her like a well."

"I'm not like that," Lauren shook her head and peered up at the television. The show must go on, even with her in this cave with a woman who should have stopped boozing it up at least one lifetime ago.

"No one starts out like that. Ever hear of a showgirl by the name of Nora Nealy?"

"Are you even listening to me?" Lauren tasted the bourbon on her tongue, the smoky liquid lingering within her cold mouth. The heaviness of the alcohol slurred her speech and made her limbs feel like lead weights.

"She was a champ, a real star—with more talent in her ear lobe than all those suckers put together," the old woman spat, jerking a thumb towards the television. "The kind of gal…a little like you, dearie, coulda' had her pick of any stage door Johnny worth his weight in salt. But she turned them all down, as virtuous as a lamb she was. She wanted love, true love," she crooned. "Nora Nealy wanted the whole roast!"

"Listen, woman—I was telling you about Bo," Lauren squeezed her eyes tight in the hope of sharpening her focus, which had just begun to blur around the edges.

"No, you was singin' a song of love, dearie."

"Yes," she sighed. "I mean, I am. But wait, you interrupted me." Her head spun. "I need water." She steadied her weight against the bar as if she were on a ship, sharply leaning on its side.

"You were about to kiss her," the Norn flashed her yellow teeth, mirthless, as if Lauren telegraphed the rest of the tale. "A first kiss, a deadly kiss, the one that fills a poor girl's head with magic."

Lauren nodded and grinned, closing her eyes, basking in the comfort of that damp and storm-filled afternoon. Then something interrupted the pleasure she'd been remembering. Lauren turned back to the Norn. "We were so close…stupid, Vex. His timing is impeccable!"

##

The door slammed hard. Lauren and Bo, just inches away from touching, lurched to opposite ends of the couch. Heavy boots marched down the hallway.

"First, I'm going to wash the North Atlantic off my body. I hate clam season…the smell! Then, I'm going to tell you a story that will make your boozies shrink to the size of button mushrooms." His black hair stood on their ends as if he'd been electrified. He dropped his keys on the coffee table and, without slowing his pace, continued onto his room and shut the door, barely taking notice of Bo and Lauren straightening themselves out on the couch. The door opened moments later, with Vex trotting out in a mini, silk kimono, back down the hallway, and disappearing into the bathroom. It was like watching a punk tornado spin and crash from room to room.

"He's kind of an acquired taste."

Bo opened her eyes wide, sighed and nodded. "Your roommate."

"This is going to sound weird…but would you feel all right if we hung out in my room?"

"And feel like a teenager girl again? We could braid each other's hair."

"Seriously, Bo. I'll just talk to Vex. Please?"

Bo looked at her and in the moment found Lauren utterly irresistible, freshly scrubbed, a little pink from the wine, and looking like her parents had just walked in on them making out. Bo bit her bottom lip, and then smiled. "Okay."

"I'll be back in two secs."

As soon as Bo was out of sight, Lauren rushed down the hallway and banged on the bathroom door. She could hear the shower running and the tuneless echo of Vex singing.

"Don't come out," she whispered harshly as she entered the bathroom. "And don't go into my room. She's here."

Vex peered from behind the shower curtain, annoyed. "Who?"

"Bo. Bo Dennis."

"Marvelous!" he grinned. "In our house?"

"Yes, and you are not to say a word to anyone."

"I'm taking it to the grave," he winked, holding up a bath brush like a scepter, with a hand over his chest. "Mind if I have a go?"

"Seriously, Vex. Things aren't going well and I need to work with her."

"Is that what you call a little roll in the hay, these days…work?"

Lauren stepped toward him, one arm bent and jamming a closed fist into the side of her waist while a finger on the other hand pointed at Vex with the directness of a missile. "There are scissors in this house, Vex. _Sharp_ scissors. I know when you go to sleep. And I know how much you value your junk. So unless you want to lose them in the middle of the night, I suggest you put a ball gag in your mouth on this one."

Vex leered. "Ball gag? If you're trying to seduce me, it's working."

"I'm serious!" She stamped her feet.

"Such a tease, Lauren. And you're mean when you're horny!"

"Vex!"

"Kidding, love. I'll leave you and boobzilla alone," he smirked. "You don't need my help scaring up trouble. All right?"

"Thank you," she said firmly, and then dashed down the hallway, her feet racing almost as fast as her heart. Bo Dennis waited on the other side of that door, her bedroom door. It was time to help Val fall in love with Lady.

* * *

><p>More to come. Thank you for reading.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Sorry for the delay. Stuff happens. I hope I haven't lost the continuity. Thank you, immensely, for the reviews, thoughts, prayers, follows, and favorites. For Anon, an homage to my New York.

* * *

><p>"Ah," the bag of bones crooned. "Now yer gettin' to the part as juicy as a two-dollar steak."<p>

Lauren regained wisps of her sobriety after a second glass of tepid water. "It's not what you think."

"You put the worm on the hook, the carrot on the stick. The girl in your bed—"

"Stop right there, lady," Lauren held her hands up. "It wasn't like that."

"Your heart raced like a train, didn't it? The rain, the pitter-patter of hope," the old woman smiled wide, like the devil, yellow teeth catching what little light there was in that dingy dive. She closed her eyes and inhaled imaginary ambrosia. The old woman deadpanned, "Everything smells like sugar."

"Well, it didn't." Lauren looked forlorn. "I went into that room not knowing what to expect."

"What did you think would happen? An ingénue in a compromising position usually gets compromised," the old woman sneered. "I could tell you stories."

"I went in to my room," Lauren went on coldly, ignoring the hundredth time that phrase fell from the old bird's crooked mouth. "She was beautiful. Absolutely exquisite—her dark eyes, her roundness…when she stretched it was like watching the slow unfolding of an origami crane." Lauren laughed as she caught herself swooning. "Bo could grace the bow of a ship! It was almost too much to look at without feeling overwhelmed. And it was distracting."

The old woman nodded her understanding. Lauren went on. "I guess I didn't care. I mean, I did, but I pretended to ignore that fact, that I did care…too much already. But you know what I'm good at? Letting this thing drive," the younger woman said, tapping her index finger to her temple.

"And what did that get you, dearie? Hmm?"

"A soggy afternoon filled with pages of Tennessee Williams." The blonde combed her fingertips through a curtain of hair that had fallen over her eyes. "Truth is, Bo was awful and I didn't know what else I could offer her." Just then Lauren looked directly at the old woman beside her looking absolutely complicit, an active partner to a scandal that could only be told in whispers. It was the first moment the old woman didn't feel compelled to sling an arrow into her story.

"You were stuck," the old woman affirmed, giving Lauren permission to continue.

"Indeed," she answered. "Indeed."

##

Lauren had creaked open the door to see Bo sitting near the window on the armless, cafe chair Lauren stole on a dare from the _Odessa_ coffee house on Avenue A. It had been the night Nadia first kissed her. She remembered the kiss and the taste of the lemon tart they'd shared but not how she got away with grand theft, well, it was grand at the time. Too short a time. Now Bo sat on that same chair, pulsing with warmth and waiting for her in the golden aura of twilight. It was one thing to steal a chair that no one would miss and another to have a heart stolen, as hers seemed to be looking at the woman with the pale skin, made paler against Bo's mane of wavy hair, and dark eyes warm with hope and focused entirely on Lauren.

Lauren sat on the corner of her bed and picked up the script lying there. Taking in a deep breath, she said, "Let's go."

For the next few hours, Lauren and Bo swam together through the pages of the script but they tread two separate oceans. Lauren went deep: every word, every line, a stroke that took her further from shore, blissfully into the emotional unknown, allowing herself to bob and be swallowed by every wave that crashed into her. The material was turbulent, to say the least, yet Lauren was able to resurrect her character on the other side of the ocean, exhausted yes, but _alive._ Bo feared not being able to feel her feet touch bottom and splashed about in the shallows. Lauren urged Bo to brave the tide; yet she waded in only ankle deep page after page, her performance a mere recitation. Her readings were at times sloppy, rushed, atonal. She bluffed her way through with a mouthful of sand. It was dark before they knew it; and both women sat bent forward opposite of one another, the emptiness of the afternoon pressing on them.

Lauren caught her breath. "I got an idea," she said, straightening up. She placed her hand on Bo's knee. "Let's take a field trip."

Bo scrunched her brow and smiled, curiosity illuminating her cheeks. "Now?"

"Yes, _now._" Lauren adjusted herself to an upright position. "Don't look so disappointed."

Bo slouched. "I'd give up on me, too, if I were you."

Lauren gazed out the window. The worst of the storm had passed leaving thick and runny streaks on the glass. She took a quick breath and spun around. "Who said anything about giving up? What we need is some fresh air…well, as fresh as you can get in New York City. Trust me?"

Bo bit her bottom lip in an attempt to suppress a smile.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'?" Lauren shook the knee beneath her hand. "Good. Let's get bundled up."

##

Lauren tossed Bo a well-worn and flannel-lined barn jacket to wear over the NYU hoodie and Yankees cap she bought during freshman year. "Don't lose that," she warned Bo. "It's my favorite."

"It's dirt with a brim on it."

Lauren laughed with a shake of her head, blonde hair brushing across her shoulders. "I prefer the term _well loved._"

Bo pulled the cap low against her forehead to obscure her face. She hoped to pass for ordinary and on first glance—the weathered coat, the grey pants, the oil-stained baseball cap—she was just another wilted lettuce leaf marching by. Then she dropped her chin as if she'd just been tickled on the soles of her feet. The dimple on her cheek revealed itself and the pin-size mole right above the corner of her mouth punctuated her smile like a grace note; and Lauren felt happy seeing Bo like this, a simple, straightforward happiness she wished she could preserve between the pages of a book and could revisit anytime she wanted, a happiness that would never fade, never go stale, or ever disappoint her.

They left swaddled to their ears and, as far as Bo was concerned, with no firm destination. Lauren clearly wasn't going to reveal her plans and Bo just stopped asking after the third or fourth block. Lauren slipped a hand into the crook of Bo's elbow and led her through the narrow and uneven sidewalks of the west village, the gypsy vendors and the last of their flimsy five-dollar umbrellas. Storm clouds faded and thinned above them in the early evening sky and the air crisped against their skin. It was too early in the year for it, but Lauren wished for the return of the roasted chestnut carts alongside the falafel and Sabrett's hot dog stands that swarmed every street corner. The thought alone made her stomach grumble loud enough for Bo to hear it.

"Somebody's hungry," Bo said, pulling her elbow and Lauren closer to her side.

Lauren's pace did not waver. "I guess I am, a little."

"Let's stop then. You're like a runaway train."

"On a mission."

"A _crazy_ mission!" Bo tugged hard enough to force Lauren to a dead stop. "Where are you taking me?"

"Let go, Bo. Just a little." Lauren tilted her and smiled. "Let's just be two regular people, having a regular time, no strings. Just _being_…blending in."

"You could never blend in, Lauren." Bo surprised herself with her own candor. She stuffed her hands into the patch pockets of her coat, closed her eyes for a moment, smiling, and shook her head. "I mean—"

"It's okay, Bo. No need to explain."

"No," she said taking a deep breath. "I want to."

Lauren nodded. They stopped in front of a brownstone. Lauren moved behind Bo and climbed up a few steps, then sat down. She scooted to make room at her side and patted the empty space as an invitation for Bo to join her. Once the two women were side by side, Bo softly began to speak.

"Do you remember the first day of rehearsal and I was sorta, kinda—"

"Rude? Bratty?"

"All of that, yeah."

"Is this the part where you apologize?"

"This is the part where I tell you how intimidating you were…_are._ Have you seen you? You're perfect."

Lauren shifted and sat on her hands to warm them. "I'm not—"

"Let me finish. I watch you in rehearsal. I watched you again today. You can do this, Lauren. I'm barely keeping up! And I want to get better, I really do," Bo began speaking with her hands, her long fingers threading and twitching in the air. "I just don't know if there's enough time and I don't want you to waste any of it on me."

"You can do anything, Bo."

"You hardly know me."

"Call it a sixth sense. You can be amazing." Lauren's gaze roamed over Bo's softly chiseled features before stopping to meet Bo's eyes; she suppressed the urge to kiss Bo's cheek, cheeks that reddened in the cold, reddened perhaps of her proximity to the self-effacing, waitress beside her.

Bo dropped her forehead into her palms. "What if I fail?"

"What if you don't?" Lauren said, smiling to herself. She slapped her palms on her thighs then jumped to her feet, descending the stone steps to the sidewalk. Bo hung her head and peered up at Lauren from under her brow.

Lauren turned back to Bo and held out her hand. "Come with me…_please?"_

Bo reached for it and slowly let her fingertips entwine with Lauren's for a few blocks before letting Lauren's hand slip away gradually, gingerly from hers as they resumed their walk westward across Sixth Avenue. The two women floated shoulder to shoulder, stealing sideway glances as they ambled through the narrow tributaries leading to Sheridan Square Park: the intersection of jazz clubs and late night cabarets littered the hooded doorways of Christopher Street before crashing into the rapids of Seventh Avenue South and the frenetic rush of cabs and humanity on the wide boulevard.

Lauren eyed the bulbous green street lamp of the subway station and headed for the stairway leading to the hole in the ground.

"Lauren," Bo slowed. "Wouldn't a cab be safer…to wherever it is you're taking me?"

"We're New Yorkers. _Safe_ isn't in our vocabulary," she shrugged. "Besides, it's the quickest way." Lauren sped down the stairs without so much as a backward glance. She didn't realize she was alone until she reached the first landing. Bo had beached herself at the top of the stairs, flapping a bit, but unmoving otherwise. Lauren raced back up.

"Are you okay?" she asked, breathless.

No longer the conceited peacock, Bo's shoulders drooped beneath the many layers of clothing Lauren had given her. Her voice was faint. "I haven't…"

"Never?"

Bo was visibly distressed. "I usually take a cab or use a car service."

"Then get ready for an adventure," Lauren laughed and for the second time that evening took hold of Bo's hand and led her forward.

If not for the closeness of Lauren, Bo may have succumbed to sensory overwhelm: the veil of tar-colored grime covering every surface, the tang of urine that stung her eyes and wrinkled her nose, the shriek of metal scraping metal, and the baritone echoes of drumming in the distance. A feeling of giddiness tickled her spine, foreign and wonderful; and as Bo shivered on the platform she looked at Lauren and her brown eyes focused on the pavement, Bo fumbled the urge to touch her again. Thank her. Love her. For giving her an ordinary and simple day. The air turned. Shimmers of light caught the train tracks, growing in intensity until the subway car's beacon flew in like a comet. The rush of wind barreled into Bo's consciousness and snatched away any thoughts of kissing her. Just as her head cleared, Bo saw Lauren standing half in and half out of the subway car, forcing the door open with her foot and hand.

"It's time," Lauren said with a toss of her chin, waiting for Bo to move. Indeed, she did, leaping onto the train with her heart wide open.

##

They jostled in their seats, bumping shoulders as the train clickety-clacked southward. Lauren and Bo passed the time reading the subway cards overhead and the various advertising headlines: _Enviar dinero de manera segura. Midtown Podiatry: we treat bunions and hammertoes. Stop tweeting weird sh!% and clean your apartment. _They giggled over that last one. Lauren tugged at Bo's sleeve at Whitehall Street Station. A short walk and minutes into the welcome of the crisp, night air both women stood in front of their destination.

"Here we are," Lauren beamed.

"Staten Island Ferry?"

"It's the most beautiful boat ride in Manhattan," Lauren answered, digging cold hands into the pockets of her coat. "And if you're nice to me, I'll spring for a beer."

They boarded the bright pumpkin ferry that chugged the black waters between Staten Island and the southern tip of Manhattan. Rows of empty seats told the story of a quiet Saturday night of workers at rest, the hustle and bustle on break. The wooden benches reminded Bo of church pews: hard, well worn, and only slightly comfortable. She noticed the smell of mildew and sweat, of hard work and monotony, and it frightened her. At one point Bo and Lauren ventured to the outside deck but the wind proved too much and blew them back inside, their lungs burning from the cold.

They sat inside as the ferry heaved across the foam. The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the glittering skyscrapers, and the bridges that criss-crossed from Manhattan to Brooklyn and Hoboken. "Sometimes on Sundays," Lauren explained, "before Vex and I had to go to work, we'd get up early for breakfast, take the train down here and just ride back and forth. A half-day's entertainment and the best views of New York City all for a buck."

Bo looked around. These were the places where souls like _Val_ and _Lady_ and waitresses and fry cooks simmered in between paychecks and clung to their daydreams; the very place where fortune snubbed its nose at people who survived on hope and marched on regardless of the season, weathering the dullness because life, with all its triumphs and terrors, meant that much to them.

Lauren noticed Bo's sudden introspection. "Say something to me."

Bo lifted her eyes to meet Lauren's dead on. Her voice was plain, words tumbling from soft lips as honestly as rain. _"We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside of our own skins, for life."_

Bo had spoken that exact line a hundred times in rehearsal but this time, the first time, truthfully. It stunned Lauren to hear her like this. "There," she finally answered, her eyes shining and excited. "There you are. There's my Val."

Bo felt her giddiness return. _My Val._ She made Lauren smile. Bo saw pleasure beam from the corners of her lips to the wrinkles near her eyes. She wanted to pump her fists in the air but was still unsure of herself. "You think so?"

"I know so," Lauren rested her hand on Bo's knee. "Take this moment, what you're feeling right now—and you'll pull this off Bo. You will."

They rode the ferry back and forth several times, running lines from _Orpheus Descending._ Bo slowly unraveled the power within the words of Tennessee Williams, every moment with Lauren giving her the courage to soar, the freedom to love.

##

They took a slower pace on their way back through the village. They were almost to Lauren's place when the blonde stopped to read the show card of _The Blue Note Jazz Club._

She sighed. "I remember a few years ago and I was down to my luck…I must've needed cheering up. So, I gave them all my money. And I mean _all of it! T_he last twenty dollars to my name becausethat's what it cost just to get inside. I don't even remember who the headliner was."

Lauren stared at the poster behind the glass. "The bar was about three or four deep and I couldn't see a thing, it was so crowded. I didn't even have enough cash leftover to buy a bottle of coke but I didn't care," she laughed. "I had to stand the entire evening in the back but I could _hear_ the music!"

Lauren closed her eyes and Bo imagined the waif-like girl swaying in the crush of drunks in the dark and farthest corner of the club, doing the rare and reckless thing of dropping her last dollar to hear a few, bluesy notes rather than spending it responsibly on bread or milk.

"Let's go in," Bo said.

Lauren immediately resisted. "No, we don't have to."

"Oh yes, we do." Bo moved behind her, and nudged her into the doorway.

"But—"

"But what?"

"You…we, _we_ can't just walk in!" Lauren paled.

"Why not?"

"Just, no, I mean. Let's just go," Lauren said moving away.

Before another protest could leave her lips, Bo practically shoved them both inside the club. Bo removed the baseball cap and stuffed it inside the jacket pocket. Her hair fell to her shoulders like a waterfall of black silk. She tore off the coat and the sweatshirt Lauren had loaned her until she was stripped down to a black camisole. Lauren's instinct was to cover her again and Bo sensed it. She leaned in close so that Lauren felt the warmth of her breath. "It's okay. I know how to play this part."

They pushed through the bar until they stood in front of the maitre' d, a big burly man in head-to-toe black and the size of a New York garbage truck. His head was bent forward, bald and shining, focusing on the reservation book in front of him.

"I was hoping to get a table," Bo licked her lips. This was Bo at her most bewitching, shoulders back, neck elongated, her fingertips stroking the top of the podium.

"Reservation?"

"You see, that's the thing. I just happened to be in the neighborhood…"

"No can do," he groused. The giant in the suit still had his head down. He appeared startled when his eyes finally lifted and landed on the exquisite woman in front of him. He swallowed hard.

"Hey! You're dat actress. From dat show." His mouth was stuffed with the gruff of Brooklyn or Queens or the Bronx, and for a moment the tough guy armor fell from his chest. "My wife loves your show. Wait 'till I tell her," he said, pronouncing _her_ like _huh._

Bo slid her hand over his and he glowed from her touch. Bo tilted her head, offering him a seamless view of the length of her soft, slender neck. "What's her name?"

He said Denise but it came out, "Duh-neez."

"That's sweet. And you are?"

"Bruce." _Broos._

"Well, Bruce," she said, taking the pen out of his hand and scribbling into the reservation book. "This is me, Bo," she continued writing. "And that's the phone number in my dressing room. If you and _Denise_," she said properly, "are ever near the studio during the day, you have Denise call that number…and if I'm on set, I'd be happy to give her a tour." She slid the pen back into his hand, making sure her touch lingered before she started moving away from him.

Lauren whispered into Bo's ear. "What are you doing?"

"Hush," she answered Lauren, still looking at Bruce.

"Wait," Bruce fidgeted, fanning the pages of the reservation book back and forth. "Seems I made a mistake. I got yer reservation, right here," he smiled, leaning in. "And my wife would cut me like a pork chop if she knew I let you walk outta here_. Come wit' me,"_ he winked.

Bruce escorted them to a table up front, discreetly to the side of the stage and with a clear view of the latin trio tapping out infectious rhythms that begged for rum, the equator, and hips swaying effortlessly in figure eights. Bo noticed Lauren's slightly tense expression, as if they were in the midst of committing petty theft, bending a rule, staying out late past curfew. Bo recognized Lauren's hesitation, the stiff spine, like she didn't belong here, just like Bo had felt all this time until the moment on the ferry.

Bo scooted closer to Lauren in the already tight space between them. "Relax, Lauren."

"We're actually here!" she whispered loudly.

"You can do anything you want to, Lauren. Have anything you want." She leaned in closer to where their noses nearly touched. "Now, I'm going to order you a coke, unless there's something else you'd like?"

Lauren ruffled her hands through her hair, unleashing an elegant mess of blonde and tangled waves. _I'd like to have you, forever if you please._ The thought had been fleeting but it had been there and maybe Bo heard it, too, and saw it as the words blushed across her cheeks, pink and bright.

Bo pressed on, her hands flat on the table, one on top of the other. "This moment deserves champagne. I want you to remember the night you sat at a proper table, listening to jazz in The Blue Note."

##

Lauren had made the last stop of the night at _The Cozy Soup 'N Burger,_ a popular Greek coffee shop that never closed and hosted its share of drunks and undergrads stumbling home in the wee hours. They had split an enormous cheeseburger and a side of onion rings so large that even between the two of them, they could not finish it.

"You ate like this?" Bo ran the corner of a wrinkled napkin across her lips. It was a small gesture, enough to make Lauren want to pass out with happiness.

"Every Saturday night. And I could eat this whole meal by myself. I must have had a hollow leg," Lauren laughed proudly. "What do you think?"

"I think one more bite and you'll have to roll me home."

They sat at the counter, a few seats away from the cash register. The neon-rimmed wall clock couldn't have been right. In a matter of hours daylight would burst this dream, this endless night. "I guess we should call you a cab," Lauren offered.

Bo rested her elbow on the counter and her head in her palm. "Do you think we could walk a little?"

Lauren looked up, surprised. They had been walking all night. "Of course."

They were only a few steps from the glass door of _The Cozy Soup 'N Burger_ near the corner of East 8th and Broadway and under the jaundiced glow of the subway station light when their hands met again, interlocking within one another. There were no more words to be said. The pavement moved beneath their feet, past the haunted Gothic spires of Grace Church, and the _18 miles of books_ so heralded by The Strand, until the ground came to a natural halt on East 14th Street, Union Square Park, and the twin and glowing pyramids atop the Zeckendorf Towers. A short, stone wall ran the perimeter of the park and there, beneath the fluttering of dry goldenrod and olive-hued leaves, Bo pulled Lauren flush against her body.

Kisses fell from Bo's mouth like stars and Lauren caught Osiris, Pegasus, Cassiopeia—all the constellations with her teeth, her tongue, her lips until her insides burst into a sky brilliant with diamonds. When at last the kissing ended, Lauren held their foreheads together, cradling Bo within her hands.

"You're thinking too much," Bo said under Lauren's stare. "I can hear you."

She could see Bo smile in the darkness. "If you can hear me, what am I thinking?"

Bo tucked a strand of hair behind Lauren's ear before pulling her in for another kiss. She brought her lips to Lauren's ear. "This is the best day of my life."

Lauren wrapped her arms around Bo and buried her face in the crook of her neck, warming that little space with the heat of her breath and all the magic she'd ever believed in and hoarded away since the day Nadia left, hoping that one day she'd get another moment, another chance like this.

Bo shuddered with happiness and loosened her arms, stretching them wide as wings; then she slowly spun round and round pirouetting like a whirling dervish, her head tossed lazily backward as she and Lauren forgot everything and everyone but each other.

They did not hear the horn blare, for that is a city sound. Nor the voice of the man yelling from the black sedan, for shouting, too, are notes in the song of New York. Reality, however, is persistent and even their momentary joy could not silence nor stop its return.

"Bo! Bo! What the heck are you doing?" The voice called out as a tall, rakish and vigorous fellow emerged from the back of the Town Car. He had the swagger of a man born into money, and an ivory smile so bright it could sell toothpaste into the next millennia.

Bo stopped her dance immediately and stepped backwards in an effort to create distance from Lauren and the man from the car.

"You know him?" Lauren switched her head back and forth between them as if at a tennis match, confusion making its slow appearance.

"Yes," Bo answered in a low voice. "That's Ryan. My boyfriend."

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading. I hope to be back soon. Your thoughtful reviews are always appreciated. ~dw<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Sorry for the delay. Be kind. This one was tough. Thanks to jcause for the beta help and so much more (and you know what I'm talking about.) For Anon. Happy New Year everyone.**

Characters of Lost Girl belong to people north of the border. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

><p>Lauren glanced up at the television above the bar. The commercial break had ended. After a brief introduction by two rising stars, the stage lights dimmed and a screen slowly dropped from the proscenium. Thus began this year's tribute to the designated living legend in a montage of black and white photos and vintage film clips. Lauren's imagination twirled: if ever there would be a tribute to one-hit wonders, she'd probably top the list. The babbling of the old woman returned Lauren to her present reality: soaking in bourbon with a stale, vinegary overcoat as a drinking partner—a snickering one at that.<p>

"The best day of my life!" Burl-knuckled fingers drew circles in the air. "You know what the gal was really sayin', don't ya?"

Lauren huffed and stared at the television. "No one says that anymore except in the movies."

"Trust me, dearie. Folks throw _I love you's_ around as if they was gum wrappers. Ha!" she laughed hoarsely. "They just don't mean it! I could tell you—"

"—_stories,_ I know! Stop with that already! Spit it out, _your ladyship,_ and stop repeating that god forsaken thing!" Lauren erupted and regretted the outburst almost immediately. She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

The old potato shrugged beneath her soiled raincoat, her eagerness all but sucked out of her leaving only indifference between the crags on her face.

"It's just been," Lauren backtracked. "Life's given me a bit of a rough go and you must be tired of me squawking on about Bo."

"And does the bourbon make you feel better?"

"No, it makes me drunk." She bowed her head contemplating whether or not to order another, a slow and uneven smile tugging one corner of her mouth. She tapped the bar top in front of her empty glass; the bartender nodded and uncorked a fresh bottle. Lauren circled a fingertip on the rim of her glass after it was filled.

The Norn looked at Lauren's reflection in the mirror behind the bar, her crooked spine straightening as she inhaled. "Nora Nealy," she rasped, deliberate and slow as if she was sharpening a blade against a stone. "She fell in love with Ziegfeld and agreed to keep their affair a secret. Her star was rising and the world, _the world," _she molded her hands as if she were holding a globe. "The world was hers.

"Then she got into a little _female_ trouble," she said with a cock of her brow. "Ziegfeld sensed it before she even told him. Maybe he was happy. Maybe he wasn't. But what he wasn't, was loyal." The Norn turned her focus away from the reflection and narrowed her gaze before settling on Lauren. The old woman's eyes flickered with arousal or contempt—Lauren couldn't quite decipher which. "He fired her," she grinned, exposing a gap where a molar used to be.

Lauren shivered under the intensity of the old woman's stare.

The bag of bones shifted in her seat, pulled her elbows behind herself and strained to broaden her chest to its fullest. Long, knobby fingers clawed the air. "There were stories, God, so many! Some say she killed herself. Lost her basket and all her marbles. That she sold herself to the first shiny pair of uptown spats that would take her in. A circus side show, it was, with all the gossip and yammerin'. Like anyone would ever know the real story. Ziegfeld had a way for payin' for the truth to come out the way he wanted. A _real_ showman!"

"Did you know her?"

"_Dearie,_ everyone knows a girl like her. A pretty flower. A girl with a heart of glass," she swiped the back of her hand across her lips before turning to face the bar.

"Kevlar," Lauren swayed and poked her index finger right over her heart. "Everything slides off. Bullets couldn't scratch it."

The old woman laughed along with her.

Lauren came down from the fleeting solidarity. "What do you believe happened to this Nora person?"

Bent over again, the Norn reached for Lauren's glass and downed its contents in a single swallow. Lauren made no attempt to stop her. "All those stories hold a little truth. She was ruined—don't matter much the how of it. Besides, that man greased every footlight from here to Herald Square. No one would hire her—who would cross the great Mr. Ziegfeld? Ended up tossin' herself off a balcony in one of his theatres, if you would believe it. Walls have ears. Theatres have ghosts. She's one of them. Wandering, chasing, punishing…" she rambled, as Lauren listened to her rapt.

"Punishing? Who?"

"Seekers of love, of course," she eyed Lauren sideways.

Lauren shook her head, tapping the bar top. "A ghost can't do that. Nonsense."

The old woman leered. "Of course. Ghosts are things of fairy tales."

Lauren threw her head back and laughed out loud.

The Norn frowned, her liver-spotted nose poking upward.

"I'm surprised you didn't toss another _I could tell you stories_ in my face," Lauren said to her. She turned to find the old woman's face stretched taut, blue eyes ablaze with such an intensity that chilled Lauren to her bones as if the cold mist of a witch's curse swirled between them. The crone held up her hand and silenced the apology just as it trickled from Lauren's conscience to her lips.

"I could tell you stories, yes," the Norn stretched her cracked lips into a grin. "But you're not done with yours, are you? The rain…the prince in the suit. Go on, _dearie_, go on."

* * *

><p>Ryan rushed toward Bo with long, gallant strides. From his dark fitted suit and the center jacket button he fingered (snug, exquisite tailoring which barely contained the lean and muscular body beneath it) and the unconscious flicking of his forearm to adjust the rather colossal chronograph shifting about loosely on his wrist—deliberate gestures, all, of a man accustomed to elegance. Lauren thought of James Bond but with slightly less mystery or grace. With little effort he wrapped Bo into his arms, lifted her, and twirled her about in the air, arching his back as he did so before planting a kiss on her lips and claiming his property. He set her down but kept his hands on her waist. "God, I missed you!"<p>

Bo forced a bit of distance with her hands flat upon his chest. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in London."

"I was. Then, I thought 'who needs to build another glass monument when the most luscious girl in the universe is here in New York without me?' I'll get another patent eventually." He pressed her against his chest, running his nose the length of her neck. Lauren heard him moan against her skin. "Your skin always reminds me of summer. Quick! Let's get you home!"

Bo extended her arms, pushing him back. "Ryan, wait." Bo pointed her chin behind him. He whipped around to see the lovely, soggy girl standing there, bewildered, abandoned, awkward as a foal. He smiled, extending his hand to her. "Ryan. Ryan Lambert."

Bo was fast on his heels. "This is Lauren. My, my—"

"We're working together," Lauren shook his hand and held onto it only long enough to not be considered rude. Touching him felt like touching an eel.

"Working?" he glanced between the two women. "It's the middle of the night!"

"I'm in a play, Ryan," Bo pulled him by the elbow and out of Lauren's personal space. "Lauren's an actress. We were rehearsing."

"A play? We never talked about this," he smirked, jutting his chiseled jaw into the air and planted his hands on his waist. The stance reminded Lauren of the old Superman, the black and white one. "Well, aren't you a dandy? Your little hobby is turning into something serious."

"She's quite good, actually," Lauren defended her.

Ryan nodded at her and raked his eyes over Bo. Lauren could practically hear the pornographic thoughts in his head. "Yes," he clacked his white teeth together. "Very, _very_ good."

"How long are you here this time?" Bo squirmed under his stare.

"What sort of question is that?" he smirked then grasped her hand. "I'm here for _you_. For as long as you want me, babe."

_Babe._ Lauren suppressed the urge to retch.

He stepped back a moment, regarding Bo. "What are you wearing? This coat is hideous." He fingered the lapel of the coat before rubbing his fingers together as if he'd just touched something greasy and unpleasant. "Everything's got to go. Not you at all, not sexy. But you're still hot–you know that. Right, babe?"

There it was again. _Babe._

"Okay!" Lauren shoved her hands into her coat pocket and smiled a tight-lipped smile. "It was nice meeting you, Ryan. I'll see you around."

"Wait! Don't go!" The force in Bo's voice startled everyone. "I mean," she corrected herself, before waxing a smile. "It's late. We can at least offer you a ride, right?" Ryan nodded and turned towards Lauren. Bo begged with her eyes for the woman to stay.

"Where are my manners?" Ryan was at Lauren's side in an instant, his hand at the small of her back, ushering her towards the open car door. "Please, this way."

Bo wedged herself in the back seat between her boyfriend and Lauren, who tried to make herself as small as possible by pinning her shoulder hard against the door. Even so, it was cramped and she moved in time with Bo, her shoulder rubbing against Bo's with every inhalation and exhalation. After his show of bravado, Lauren hadn't expected Ryan to be so well mannered in the car. He bantered easily and leaned forward intermittently to engage Lauren, flash his teeth, and include her in the topic at hand. He showed genuine interest in what Lauren had to say, and waited patiently for her reply even as he peppered her with questions: what she did for work, how long she'd lived in the city, and if she had suggestions for the best pizza in New York. Lauren offered that she knew of a great fish and chips place near her apartment.

"I'm a waitress." She focused on the streetlights streaking by.

"_Was_ a waitress_,_" Bo corrected her but Lauren never fixed her gaze anywhere but outside of the car. She allowed herself one glance and that was upon Bo's lap and the slender fingers splayed across her thighs. As if on cue, Ryan reached for the hand closest to him and mauled it with his own, well-manicured paw.

"Thank God you've never had to wait tables," Ryan grinned, giving Bo's hand a squeeze. "You know, once you've gotten this amusing little play out of your system, we should take the jet to Havana. I know the best little corner bar. You think you've had a mojito? Aha! It's the rum, real Cuban rum. Ever been to Cuba, Lauren?" He leaned forward again, palming the front of his custom-tailored shirt as he did so.

She shook her head.

"Well then, Lauren the waitress, you should come. Bring a date," he hummed. He pressed Bo's hand to his lips and kissed away the happiness that only a few moments ago had been within Lauren's grasp, fleeting and imagined, under the shadow of moonlight. Lauren turned away. Blood rushed her cheeks and burned her flesh with shame.

* * *

><p>Lauren could not have imagined this feeling of dread as she went into rehearsal Monday morning—this, the thing she'd worked so long and hard for, chafed her insides, as persistent and irritating as a pebble in one's shoe. Memorization usually came so easily, and it's not as if she hadn't already been completely off book before the first day work began. Yet today, the Stage Manager, Brownie, an endearing little pastry of a man with a receding hairline, repeatedly needed to feed Lauren her lines. Something within Bo had turned as well—the rawness that everyone had hoped for made an appearance—<em>Val<em> finally bloomed, which made Lauren's scattered and frosty reading of _Lady_ that much more noticeable. Lauren registered the confusion on the faces surrounding her and tamped down the distractions of her own thoughts, thoughts of Bo and Ryan, thoughts that threatened to undo her whenever Bo was near, which was, really, all the time.

Bo pursued Lauren as a shadow: trailing her during breaks, lingering over the coffee station hoping for a moment alone, slipping a note into the pages of her script with the vain hope of some acknowledgement—a look, a vulgar hand gesture, anything with a hint of emotion. Lauren shut down Bo's attempts at small talk and in time, her sub-zero attitude doused the woman's vigor until Bo abandoned her efforts. Between Bo and her own lack of focus, the day exhausted Lauren. Then, the specter of the play closing before it even opened came calling once again when the show's producer, Oscar Stewart, called everyone together on stage mid-afternoon. While everyone on set was on a first name basis, he preferred being addressed as Mr. Stewart. He had two claims to fame: one, producing a hippie musical as his senior project in University and two, getting the same hippie musical produced on Broadway two years later. It still held the record of the longest-running musical on Broadway and he did well from it, living off the royalties for over forty years. In his mind, this made him an impresario from his hand-tied bow tie to his pocket square, and polished spectator shoes.

"I am sure you've heard rumors," Mr. Stewart began, speaking solemnly with his hands squirreled deeply into the pockets of his Herringbone jacket. He glanced around the room. "Not every production that goes into rehearsal ever makes it to the stage…even with a cast and crew as talented as you all are."

He lowered his balding head in a manner of harsh self-reflection, scrunching his brow and bringing to the stage an eerie suspension of time that held every breath in the room hostage to his silence.

"I love this little theatre," Mr. Stewart continued. By then, the mood was funereal and Lauren could smell the stench of cooking grease and felt apron strings tightening around her waist. "And I am sad to say this is our last day here."

Before the groans of cast and crew could swell, he held up his palms and smiled. "It's our last day here because we're moving uptown to _The Music Box!_ Ladies and gentlemen, we're opening on Broadway!"

"How?" Lauren stepped forward.

"A visionary patron of the arts, rather influential, that's all I'm allowed to say right now. A last minute addition to our family—one with tremendous capital. Suffice it to say he's a big fan, big enough to persuade the right people to give us a run uptown. You two are going to make headlines, Lauren." Oscar Stewart then gently held Lauren's shoulders. "Don't look so worried." He let go and waved towards the wings. "Brownie! A bottle, please!"

Champagne corks popped, everyone howled and hugged one another—even the most curmudgeon amongst them. Lauren prolonged speaking to Bo until it was absolutely unavoidable, circling the perimeter of the impromptu party until there was no one else to congratulate. As they came between a few feet of each other, Brownie and Mr. Stewart burst between them.

"What a break, hey kids?" Mr. Stewart passed champagne flutes to Bo and Lauren. "There's something else. Our producer is very well connected in the media and has arranged for _The New York Times Sunday Magazine _to shoot the 'Soap Star and the Waitress.' It's a wonderful package, and needless to say, quite the press coup."

Bo held onto the flute, unsipped. Lauren gripped hers, too, but still hadn't looked at Bo even as the celebration buzzed around them.

"Clear your schedule for next Friday. And," he said with a bit of warning, "bring the heat." His last words charged the air between them.

Once again alone, Lauren looked everywhere except at Bo.

"I owe you an explanation," Bo twirled and focused on her glass.

"No, you really don't," Lauren said with a slow roll of her eyes.

"There was a reason why—"

"—there's always a reason why." Lauren raised her head upward and glared at Bo and for a moment her insides stirred. _Those damn dark eyes._ In their warmth, all rational thought disappeared and her resolve flailed under the pull of Bo's orbit; but fear, however faint, prevailed. "You were right," Lauren stiffened. "From the first moment we met."

"I want to explain."

Lauren took a sip from the champagne flute in her hand. "Acting. Isn't that what you said?"

"I don't remember."

"No, you wouldn't." There was more bite to her voice than Lauren intended. She gathered her emotions back under her skin where they were accustomed to hiding. "I believe you said, 'Acting. We pretend for the next two months.'"

Bo stepped closer and reached for Lauren's elbow, and the hurt flared in Bo's eyes when her co-star flinched. "That wasn't pretending when I kissed you."

"And what about Ryan? Is that what you tell him…_babe?"_ Bo's cheeks paled and her mouth dropped open ever so slightly, and Lauren couldn't decipher which hurt more, seeing that she hit her mark or the remorse of knowing that she did. Brownie walked by and Lauren placed her empty flute on the tray. She rubbed her palms against her jean-clad thighs. "Save it for the stage, Bo. I'll see you in rehearsal."

Lauren headed for the stage door without so much as turning around. For if she did, Bo would have seen the tears pooling in her eyes and having Bo see her break was just something she would never do.

* * *

><p>"Oy! Are you going to stay in there all day?"<p>

"Go away!" Lauren's muffled voice answered from underneath the sheets. She was surprised that Vex had taken this long to confront her.

"What happened? One minute you're romancing _Boobs O'Clock_ and now this—setting a record for the longest pity party, ever! You've been a ghost for days. Never call. Don't write, ever. Don't you know you're supposed to call your Uncle Vexie whenever you're flirtin' with disaster?" He pumped his hips back and forward like a dog in heat. "Makin' whoopee with a pretty lady, eh?"

Lauren exploded out of the sheets and rounded a pillow at his head. "For god's sake, Vex. Must you be so disgusting?!"

"I'll have you know that my _disgusting_ is an art and quite appreciated in some circles."

"A circle jerk."

Vex genuflected dramatically before leaping onto the bed beside her. "Seriously," he said, "are you all right?"

Lauren closed her eyes. "Yes. No. I mean," she brushed her hand through her hair. "I will be. It's stupid."

"You? Stupid?" Vex patted Lauren's leg over the sheet. Then, as if he sensed the wound beneath her skin, he offered sweetly, "You're brilliant."

Lauren palmed her face with both hands and melted into Vex's arm.

"You just say the word," he soothed, "and I'll stab trouble for ya' right in the tits." He felt the tremble of giggling followed by the sound of Lauren sniffling.

"You won't need to."

"Why not?"

"Bo is seeing someone else."

"Already? Why the little bi–"

"No, apparently they've _been_ seeing each other. He's fabulously wealthy and sickeningly handsome." Lauren buried herself under the sheets.

" C'mon, let's have a look." Vex peeled back the sheets, revealing hazel eyes rimmed red from crying.

"Pathetic, I know," Lauren looked at her hands.

He squeezed her hand and brushed wisps of blonde hair from her cheeks.

"Don't go soft but try not to say anything too mean, either," she said, slowly sitting up against the headboard.

"You need a big, greasy lunch," Vex offered, pushing off the bed to stand. "My treat."

"As good as that sounds, I can't. Bo and I—"

Vex cocked his brow.

"Not what you think," Lauren sighed. "We have a press call. Photo shoot, the works."

"You're going to have your hands full with that one. Love is a donkey's ass."

Lauren launched another pillow at her roommate barely missing him, shooting a frosty glare along with it. "Who said anything about love? And what would you know about it?"

Vex tossed the pillow back to her, and smirked while he pretended to zip his lips. "Not a damn thing."

"Do you remember how I met Nadia?" Lauren rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

"The little tart!"

"No, before she became _the little tart,"_ Lauren mimicked his accent.

"She was your own personal Avedon. Yeah, I remember. Tête-a- tête alone with a lesbian and her tripod. Your head was so far up her viewfinder…wait."

"Yup." Lauren nodded.

"Ohhh," Vex realized Lauren's point. "So you think this photo shoot with Bo is going to turn out the same way?"

"I've been avoiding Bo all week…outside of work, I mean."

"That's what's got your knickers all in a twist? You're afraid of being alone with her? You forget one thing, Lauren—you're _you_. A bleedin' iceberg, you are."

"Yeah, but then she looks at me and…"

"Listen to old Vex. You can do this, Queen of the Frozen Tundra. You haven't felt up anything since 1965."

"I wasn't even alive then, you dope."

That's the point, isn't it? Being alive?"

"Don't suppose you'd come with?"

Vex scoffed. "Front row tickets to the smash-up clam derby? No, thank you!"

Lauren flopped backwards. "I can't do this!"

"Eyes down, knees together!"

"That's it? That's your pep talk?"

Vex pursed his lips and with a shrug of shoulders left Lauren as she sank deeper into into the bed, shivering at the very thought of her.

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><p>More to come soon. There you have it. Thoughtful reviews welcome.<p> 


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